Centimetres
by chartreuseian
Summary: How big is one centimetre, really? Amelia in the bar... ONESHOT


She sits down, welcoming the smell of stale beer and sweat. It beckons her like a teasing memory of release. She takes a deep breath and stares off into nothing. The bottles are lined up neatly along the back wall, like little soldiers, each has its place, never wavering, they have a solidarity that she wants. She needs to be part of that, she needs to have something.

**"What can I get you?"**

The voice startles her, making her return to the world around her. She looks up into his eyes, they're warm but tired. Her heart starts beating suddenly as an image of Charlotte enters her mind's eye. She's having trouble remembering what Charlotte said through the longing that is creeping up her throat. Then she thinks back to the surgery.

Her hands start to shake.

1 centimetre.

2 centimetres.

3 centimetres.

What's the difference really? she thinks. 10 millimetres. 20 millimetres. 30 millimetres. It's all the same out here. 1 centimetre or 2.

It doesn't matter now. But it did. 1 centimetre inside someone's skull is life or death. 2 centimetres. 3 centimetres. She's suddenly parched. She looks up into those tired, warm eyes. Only a second has passed but inside her skull, it seems like an eternity, each second dragging itself over her temporal lobe. Her intact temporal lobe, she thinks.

Her temporal lobe isn't missing 1 centimetre.

2 centimetres.

3 centimetres.

"**Vodka tonic."**

Her voice is dull, made blunt by the excruciating experience that is thinking. Charlotte's face splashes against the back of her eyelids as she blinks. Charlotte hugged her. She finally remembers. Sort of.

Charlotte hugged her. She was sad. And they… they… they talked. That's right says the screeching voice in her head. You talked to Charlotte. Monday. She remembers Monday.

Monday. But it's Friday. It's Friday. Thoughts are hard. She can't think properly. She wants… needs… Monday. Monday. A meeting on… Monday. Good. A meeting on Monday. A meeting on Monday with… with… she needs something to clear her head.

Charlotte.

A meeting on Monday with Charlotte. Because she wants a drink. That she can remember clearly. She needs a drink. But she shouldn't. Because of the temporal lobe.

1 centimetre of temporal lobe. 10 millimetres.

Not 2 centimetres. Not 20 millimetres.

Not 3 centimetres. Not…

Charlotte. Charlotte. In the O.R. Charlotte said… she talked… she talked her down. Charlotte cares. Charlotte wanted to go to… to… to a meeting on Monday.

She can't help but feel she's had this thought already. It doesn't hurt as much as the other thoughts.

Charlotte.

Charlotte hugged her.

"**Just one."**

Her heart beats faster as he turns his warm, tired eyes from her to reach for one of the soldiers. She watches as he picks up the cup and puts the ice in it.

Ice is cold, she remembers. Ice is cold. And wet. Once she went skating with Derek. On the ice. She fell. On the ice. That's why she thinks it's cold. Ice is cold. It soaked through her jeans. It made her cold. And it was hard. Hard and cold and wet.

Blood is wet.

Blood in the brain is wet.

Betsy's blood was wet. Wet and warm. The ice wasn't warm when she fell. Derek had fallen next to her. On the cold and hard ice.

Derek. Dad. Derek. Derek was shot.

Bang, she thinks.

Dad was shot.

Bang. Two bangs. Two shots. Death. Death is a matter of centimetres some times. If the shot had hit something else. If it was one centimetre closer.

1 centimetre. 1 centimetre of difference.

1 centimetre doesn't matter. Not here. Not in the world. But inside it does. 1 centimetre in your body is the difference between life and death. A professor told her that once. 1 centimetre.

1 centimetre of temporal lobe. 1 centimetre can mean life or death. 1 of anything. 1 shot, 1 chance, 1 sip. 1 sip. 1 sip of champagne. 1 day and 1 sip. Six weeks.

Six weeks and it was killing her. Six weeks since 1 sip. Six weeks since she spat out that 1 sip. Everything else about that day fades into background noise as she remembers that one sip. It's a sharp memory, it bites at her tongue like that 1 sip of champagne she spat out.

Although at the time she knew why she spat it out, now she can't remember it. All she can remember was how the bubbles fizzed on her tongue. How dry it was. How much better than ginger ale it was.

She looks up just as the warm and tired eyes put down a cup in front of her. The world is taking forever to move and all she can think about is the tiny bit of champagne that slid down her throat.

Charlotte again

Why Charlotte? she thinks. She stares at the ice, trying to remember what Charlotte said.

A meeting. A meeting. Monday. A meeting on Monday. The idea seems familiar but it slips out again as she sees the warm and tired eyes go to pour the drink.

Something inside her is screaming.

No! NO! STOP! PLEASE DON'T! NO! NOT AGAIN! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!

The voice is begging now. But the rest of her is stronger than the voice.

The rest of her is tired. The rest of her knows that if she drinks the voice will go away.

That's what she wants, she decides, for the voice to go away. Slowly, so slowly the liquid moves through the ice, filling up her cup. Slowly, very slowly.

It's deceptive, she thinks, her mind working faster now, more clear, it can see then end in sight. It's deceptive because it looks like a lot of fluid but it's not. It's maybe a centimetre of fluid if she's lucky.

Luck.

Lucky.

Lucky centimetre.

She was lucky. Betsy was awake. The centimetre was gone but she was fine.

Centimetre. The glass is sitting in front of her now.

Centimetre. The tired and warm eyes are gone, focused on another order.

Centimetre. The centimetre or fluid.

The centimetre of brain. 1 centimetre. 10 millimetres. 100 micrometres. She reaches out and grabs the glass.

1 centimetre. It's cool against her hand. The ice makes it cool. 1 centimetre. The voice is screaming, begging, pleading. 1 centimetre. She wants to forget about centimetres.

1 centimetre. She lifts the glass slowly to her mouth, it's lighter than she had expected. She closes the gap, centimetre by centimetre.

Centimetre by centimetre the voice is getting louder.

Louder and louder and louder and louder.

Centimetre by centimetre by centimetre by centimetre.

1 centimetre of Betsy's brain.

The glass touches her bottom lip.

Charlotte hugged her.

She parts her lips.

1 centimetre of fluid.

She tilts her head back.

No more centimetres.

The voice is quiet..

Just 1...

_I know this one is a bit dark and twisty but it just sort of happened that way... Love you know what you think! :)_


End file.
